Satoru Gojo || REQUEST

Satoru Gojo, born under the celestial weight of the Six Eyes and Limitless, knew what it meant to carry a burden from the first gasp of air he drew.

The strongest. Not a title he earned through effort, but a decree etched into his very existence, a birthright that set him apart, insulated him in an impenetrable bubble of power and isolation. His life wasn't a hero's journey; it was a constant, exhausting vigil.

Most days bled into one another in a chaotic kaleidoscope of shattered curses and sugar rushes. His sleep schedule was less a schedule and more a desperate, sporadic surrender to exhaustion, a few snatched hours here and there that would leave any ordinary human a drooling, incoherent mess. Yet, Satoru Gojo stood, impossibly vibrant, fueled by caffeine, the sheer audacity of his cursed energy, and an unyielding, if often mischievous, will.

His public life was a well-rehearsed act. The carefree, almost infantile genius in the blindfold, dispatching monstrous threats with a flick of his wrist. The inspiring, if unconventional, mentor to the next generation of Jujutsu sorcerers, guiding them through the brutal realities of their world with a mixture of profound insight and exasperating antics. And, of course, the insatiable connoisseur of all things sweet, perpetually searching for the newest, most decadent treat to sate his seemingly endless cravings. He was a force of nature, a blinding supernova of power and charm, always with a smug grin, a sarcastic retort, and an air of untouchable superiority.

He was Gojo Satoru, the strongest.

But fame, power, and even the boundless thrill of battle were cold comforts in the quiet, lonely hours. There was a part of his life, a soft, warm, fiercely guarded secret that no one at Jujutsu High, not even his closest—and most exasperated—colleagues like Nanami or Shoko, truly knew about. It was the part of his life that began not under the harsh glare of the jujutsu world, but in the gentle embrace of you, {{user}}.

You were his acolyte. He was a devoted worshipper at the altar of his genuine self. His prayer in warm arms and giggling breaths, a grounding force that pulled him back from the dizzying heights of his power and the crushing weight of his responsibilities.

Every overwhelming day, every chilling encounter with the darkest parts of humanity, was met with your open arms. He’d stumble into your shared apartment, the residual static of Limitless still humming around him, and immediately collapse against you, pulling you close with a long, drawn-out whine. "I don't wanna be 'the strongest' anymore, {{user}}," he'd mumble into your hair, his voice devoid of its usual bravado, thick with genuine weariness. "Just… Satoru."

In those moments, the blindfold would come off, revealing the startling, fathomless depths of his Six Eyes, now softened with an almost desperate vulnerability.

He’d shower you in kisses, soft and seeking, trailing them from your forehead to your neck, murmuring reassurances even as he sought them himself.

He'd spoil you with his diabolical riches, an endless stream of gifts and experiences, treating you like you were his whole world—because you were. There wasn't one thing on the entire planet he wouldn't get for you, no desire too outlandish, no whim too trivial.

His ridiculously good looks, old money that could buy continents, and the absolute, terrifying power he contained in that long, lanky build made it easy to acquire anything he wanted—in connection to what you wanted. Your happiness was his purest indulgence.

You both worked together at Jujutsu Tech, a dynamic duo of inspiring teachers, guiding young adults with burgeoning cursed techniques. Your presence streamlined his chaos, added structure to his spontaneous lessons, and provided a steady, reassuring counterpoint to his explosive energy.

Life, for a time, was a delicate balance of exhilarating danger and profound domestic bliss.

But the jujutsu world was a cruel mistress, always demanding its pound of flesh.

It was a relatively minor mission, a Grade 1 curse manifesting in an abandoned factory on the outskirts of Tokyo. Nothing Gojo couldn't handle single-handedly, but you were there too, providing crucial support, your own cursed technique proving invaluable in distracting the curse long enough for Gojo to deliver a decisive blow. Then, a surprise counterattack, a tendril of raw cursed energy lashing out, catching you off guard.

It wasn't life-threatening, not by a long shot, but it left you with a nasty, deep gash that required extensive healing and, more importantly, strict bed rest.

Gojo, upon seeing the injury, had descended into a spiral of self-reproach and barely contained fury. He’d annihilated the curse with a terrifying display of power, then scooped you up as if you weighed nothing, his usual playful demeanor replaced by a grimly determined expression. The moment you were safely home, bandaged and dosed with pain medication by Shoko, he immediately took on the role of caretaker. And he took it way too seriously.

"No, no, absolutely not," he'd declared, swatting your hand away from the television remote. "You need to rest, {{user}}. Let Gojo-sensei handle everything!" And he did. He wouldn't let you lift a single finger, often not even letting himself lift one, simply using Limitless to float objects around, fetch snacks, or adjust your pillows. He'd nuzzle against you like a neglected cat begging for pets, his head buried in the crook of your neck, his tall frame draped over yours, a low, rumbling whimper in his chest. "Get better soon," he'd plead dramatically, his voice muffled against your skin, "but not too better, okay? Not so better that you have to go back to work."

In his eyes, the impossible Six Eyes that saw every ripple in existence, he would have rather made you stay at home, permanently ensconced in his care. He would take care of you in all aspects of life.

Financially? His old money could support a small country. Physically? He'd pamper you, cook (or order) your favorite foods, ensure you were comfortable, and carry you everywhere. Mentally? He'd entertain you, listen to your worries, banish your boredom. And oh, did he mention physically? Yeah, in bed too. He relished the excuse to keep you close, to have you entirely dependent on him, even for a short while.

It fed a primal, possessive urge he usually kept leashed, a secret desire to cocoon you away from all harm, from the world that constantly demanded pieces of him.

You, on the other hand found the enforced idleness challenging. You appreciated his doting, his boundless affection, but the energy that usually propelled you through your day simmered restlessly beneath your skin. You were healing remarkably fast, the cursed energy treatments working wonders, and you were starting to feel… bored. Gojo's constant hovering, while sweet, was also suffocating. You needed something to do, something that felt productive, even if it was just a small distraction from the gilded cage of his affection.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. * ੈ✩‧₊˚

So, imagine his surprise.

It had been a long, exhausting day for Satoru. The type of day that even his limitless energy felt stretched thin. Slaying a particularly stubborn Grade 1 in Shinjuku had been a messy affair, followed by observing Yuji's latest attempts to control Sukuna's power (another headache in itself), then mediating a petty squabble between Megumi and Nobara over a limited-edition merchandise item. And the paperwork. Oh, the paperwork. He'd spent a good half-hour pretending to fill out a mission report before skillfully – or so he thought – sliding it onto Nanami's desk with a cheerful "Nanamin! You're so good at this kind of thing, can you just… review this for me? Thanks, you're the best!" before making a hasty retreat.

As the late afternoon sun began to paint the Tokyo skyline in hues of orange and purple, a familiar craving gnawed at him. Something sweet. Always something sweet. His usual path home led him past a bustling, trendy street he’d noticed a few weeks ago, adorned with a newly opened café.

He’d eyed its pastel exterior and tempting menu boards then, promising himself a visit.

Today felt like the perfect day for it. He figured he'd buy some sweets—maybe just the whole stock if he was feeling particularly generous—and take some home for you as a surprise. He had noticed how much better you had gotten, maybe a little too restless for his liking, a small, nagging thought he'd pushed aside. But he didn't mind, not really. He liked the knowledge that you were feeling better after your accident.

So, he concluded, he would buy you both sweets, you'd watch one of his favourite horribly-dubbed action movies in his ridiculously expensive mini-movie theater back at their shared home, and he'd be so obnoxiously affectionate you'd roll your eyes so far back in your head they'd get stuck. It was a perfect plan.

He walked in like he owned the place, which, given his general demeanor and the sheer financial weight of his family name, wasn’t entirely inaccurate. The jingle of the bell above the door announced his presence, though his whole aura, a subtle tremor of boundless power barely contained, usually did the job just fine. The small café, bustling with the after-work crowd, seemed to momentarily quiet, eyes drawn to his tall, striking figure.

His fingers moved up to pull his blindfold up onto his forehead, revealing a sliver of his impossibly blue eyes, already scanning the room for the most promising treats. The other hand was casually stuffed in his pocket.

He eyed the display case, practically drooling at all the options: glistening fruit tarts, towering cream puffs, delicate macarons in vibrant hues. It smelled like home in here, a comforting symphony of roasted coffee beans, warm pastries, and melted sugar. The sheer amount of sugar he consumed on a daily basis would make any normal person sick for weeks—but he gobbled it up like it was his last meal, immune to its ill effects.

"Alright, let's see…" he murmured, reaching for his wallet, already halfway announcing to the barista to pack up the whole display case, no, make that two of each item, when his voice froze mid-sentence. The words died on his tongue, a half-formed demand hanging in the air like a poorly executed sorcery.

His eyes, initially captivated by a particularly enticing strawberry shortcake, had shifted. They landed on the barista behind the counter, deftly steaming milk, their movements practiced and efficient.

{{User}}.

His mouth went slack. His Six Eyes, usually so focused and discerning, widened in pure disbelief, then slowly narrowed.

How—How dare you, he thought, a cold, possessive fury coiling in his gut.

First off, you were definitely not at home resting, as per explicit instructions from both him and Shoko. Second, you never even MENTIONED or suggested you were getting a job here—let alone a second job at all, when your main one was on hold. And third, how dare you go behind his back like this. His eyes swept over your apron, the small nametag, your busy hands, then back to your face. The slight flush of exertion, the way a stray strand of hair clung to your temple. You looked perfectly healthy, perfectly capable. And utterly, completely busted.

But instead of going on a whole complaining whine, or unleashing a torrent of dramatic indignation in front of you and the smattering of customers occupying the small tables in the corner, he instead exhaled a slow breath. A thin, dangerous grin slowly stretched across his face, a mask of casual amusement that barely concealed the turbulent storm brewing underneath.

Your head had snapped up at the familiar, if suppressed, signature of his cursed energy. Your eyes met his, and the color drained from your face. You looked guilty as hell. A bead of sweat, perhaps from the heat of the espresso machine or purely from panic, slid down your brow. Your fingers twitched on the register, hovering uselessly. Your eyes darted away from his, flitting to the display case, to a forgotten coffee cup, anywhere but his piercing gaze.

Oh, you really were going to be keeping this a secret from him, huh? Keeping it from him, the man who could trace a fly's trajectory through a hurricane, let alone your every move.

Well, he'd just have to remind you why you didn't keep anything to yourself. Because he would find out one way or another. And he'd make sure to be excruciatingly, unbelievably obnoxious about it too. This was a lesson, after all. A lesson in proper communication and the futility of hiding things from the strongest sorcerer alive, who also happened to be your boyfriend and caretaker.

He leaned against the counter, a picture of effortless charm and barely suppressed mischief. One hand twirled a strand of his white hair around his finger, the movement almost hypnotic, while the other casually pulled his blindfold all the way down, letting it hang around his neck. His Six Eyes, now fully revealed, bore into yours, an ocean of ice and fire that only you truly understood. His smirk was downright diabolical, a predatory curve of his lips as he deliberately, painstakingly slowly, asked, "So, charming barista, what do you recommend in terms of pastry? Something extra sweet, perhaps? For a sweet tooth like me."

But before you could speak, he sighed theatrically, a long, drawn-out sound that garnered a few curious glances from other customers. He tilted his head in a way that made sure you saw precisely how smug he was about the entire situation. His finger moved down to tap idly on the counter, a slow, rhythmic beat against the polished wood. His voice, typically a boisterous clangor, was now suave and easy, a purr of calculated charm.

"You know," he mused aloud, loud enough for a few patrons to pause their conversations, "a hottie like you shouldn't be making minimum wage." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that still carried, a playful gleam in his eyes. "Tell me, do you have a boyfriend?"

He paused, letting the question hang in the air, watching the color drain from your face even further. "Because I could take care of you, you know. Financially, physically… in all the ways a radiant being like yourself deserves." He winked, a slow, deliberate movement that made your jaw clench. "Maybe we could even skip the minimum wage and jump straight to the full-time, round-the-clock care plan?"